


paradox

by runandgo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, M/M, Spoilers, contains more than your daily recommended allowance of sugar, literally no one else is in this fic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9305939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runandgo/pseuds/runandgo
Summary: His stomach drops with the same feeling he got when he was standing on the ledge.L'appel du vide.Have you ever wanted to ruin your own life?





	

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN TLD! here be spoilers, and lots of them. thanks for wanting to read my fic though!
> 
> i literally haven't been able to think of anything but this last episode since it aired. this is un-beta'd, un-britpicked, un-anything but direct thought process. despite the fact that johnlock literally got me into shipping, i've never posted any fic for it before so please be gentle with my fragile soul. i just want these two boys to kiss and be happy!!!! i also really wanted to get this out before tfp aka my death, bc it probably won't make any sense after this sunday!
> 
> there's no exposition to this because it's supposed to take place immediately after the Hug. it feels weird, i know, but i just wanted to jump right into that emotional intimacy.
> 
> comments and kudos make my day brighter and are always appreciated ❤ seriously, your input makes me a better writer (ESPECIALLY if you notice spelling mistakes! some people get mad when they're pointed out but i'd be eternally grateful). hope you enjoy!

When John goes to him, the world slows its turning. He's real, he's back where he belongs, and it's so right that Sherlock almost sobs in time with him. If this is what love is like all the time - like you can feel the heavens moving around you - then Sherlock is grateful he will only ever feel it once. He knows this as deeply as he knows anything, with a kind of intuition that's different from the one he uses on a daily basis.

_What's the worst thing you can do to your very best friends?_

It's John. It's always been John, ever since that first case when they couldn't stop laughing up against the wall in the entrance of Baker Street. When he called Sherlock amazing. When he saved Sherlock's life, like it was something worth saving. He'd felt a twinge in his chest when he sat across the table from John that night and watched him fumble with the chopsticks, brow knit in concentration. And then it all went to hell after that. People said that if Sherlock had a heart, it was of stone. Impenetrable. Cold. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? 

A paradox. A classic one. For it to exist, both parts must be assumed to be indestructible. The irony of it all is that hearts are not, even Sherlock's, thus the outcome becomes obvious. It's cliche and tacky, but so is falling in love in the first place. 

John's still weeping. His neck is warm under Sherlock's hand and his heart is beating, and he's _here,_ and suddenly Sherlock can't stop himself from opening his mouth to quietly say the other man's name. His stomach drops with the same feeling he got when he was standing on the ledge. _L'appel du vide._ Have you ever wanted to ruin your own life? 

With another heaving breath, John steps away and scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve. "Sorry," he mutters, laughing a little. Attempting to deflect the situation as always. 

"No, it's..." Sherlock has to consciously prevent himself from saying _fine._ "It's not something to be sorry for." He pauses and clears his throat, then plows on, because he's started anyway. Because if he's going to lose all of this, at least he didn't have it back for too long. "You didn't let me finish earlier. I have known many people -" 

"Sherlock, you don't have to do this," John says, and reaches out, places a hand above Sherlock's elbow. He could die with that small touch. Every contact is his undoing. 

"Please," he says, and his voice breaks under the weight of it. John goes silent, steps back, and his face changes and falls open. Something about his body language tells Sherlock that he understands that this is important. 

"I have known many people in my life, but made few friends, and I can safely say that you are the only one who's company has only bettered me. You, John Watson, who thought yourself perfectly ordinary, have made me human. People call me a hero but I was not before I met you. I rose to your descriptions. You made me want to change myself, not out of selfish reasons but because I wanted to be the person that you saw when you looked at me." John's crying again, silently this time; the tears are sliding down his cheeks like rain on the window. Still Sherlock continues, biting back the tremor that threatens to encroach on his voice. His hands are shaking. 

"I suspect this is in part due to the fact that your friendship with me had nothing to do with wanting my help. You needed a flatmate; you didn't know that I was a genius, or a highly skilled detective. And because of this, combined with your obvious interest in my profession, you became my friend. Perhaps my first. Certainly my best. No, you are not the best man. But you are not selfish. You take your gifts - your morality, your protectiveness, your rationality - and you use them to make the world better. You made _me_ better simply through your presence. You took nothing and gave me everything. _You are a good man._ " Now there are tears blurring his vision, too, and he blinks then away harshly. "You're the man I fell in love with." 

The quiet settles over the sitting room like snow. It's only broken by the nearly-silent sounds of John's clothes rustling as he sobs. This time there are no theatrical howls; he's bent over, hands covering his eyes. Fear fills Sherlock's lungs, weighs them down like water, makes it difficult to breathe. He trips over his words as he shoves them out in haste. "Of course, it's completely understandable if I've made you feel uncomfortable. That... was not my intention, and I sincerely apologize. I was merely -" 

"You sodding idiot," John says suddenly. His nose is blocked from crying so his words are thick. "I mean, really, Sherlock." He stands to his full height, wiping his face for what must be the hundredth time. "That was... one of the most thoughtful, the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me. Actually, it is the most - just - _Christ,_ Sherlock." 

"I thought you didn't enjoy emotional confrontation," Sherlock ventures. 

"I don't." 

"But you weren't uncomfortable." 

"Oh yes. I was." 

"Then -" 

"Oh, you - I love you too!" John explodes, finally, addressing the ceiling rather than the true subject of his outburst. 

Another silence, more out of shock than anything else. "You - I'm sorry." Sherlock frowns, shakes his head, hits himself in the ear a few times with the heel of his hand. He registers an aborted move by John, presumably to reach out and grab his wrist to stop him from hitting himself again. "What did you say?" 

"I said -" John's tone is embarrassed, quiet. His right hand is white-knuckled on the edge of the chair, but as Sherlock watches, he releases his grip and lets his hand fall to his side. He straightens up to military posture, then relaxes slightly. Softly. It's as if Sherlock can see John correcting himself. "I said. That... well, alright..." He inhales sharply through his nose and gives a little half-laugh. "It is what it is. And I suppose... yeah. I love you too." It seems like he forces himself to do it, but eventually John looks up and his eyes find Sherlock's, and Sherlock has never felt himself laid so bare. Like a butterfly pinned to the board, separated from himself. 

"John," Sherlock says hesitantly, already filled with trepidation, "you must understand, that when I say love -" 

"Yeah, Sherlock, I do know what you meant." John smiles, and his eyes crinkle up, and Sherlock is floating, floating. His stomach is soaring as if he's about to be sick. "After seven years I think I've gotten pretty good at reading you." 

He can't stop the smile that creeps onto his face. "People cannot be read, John; that isn't what I do. I simply -" 

" _Observe._ Christ Almighty, Sherlock, I know. I know your..." John gestures vaguely. "Your _spiel,_ your soliloquy." 

"Oh, good, can you do it next time? I'm getting rather tired of it." 

They're both laughing, out of exhaustion and sheer disbelief. John's words are echoing hollowly in Sherlock's ears, fueled by an incredible hope that's springing up faster than he can quash it. 

Moments slide by in Sherlock's mind's eye, memories that lock into place now, pieces in a puzzle he didn't know he was solving. _The wonder in John's face in the cab on their way to the first case. The times he'd texted Sherlock reminding him to eat, or sleep, or for God's sake 5 nicotine patches is not healthy. Holding hands like they'd fly away in the bitter wind if they didn't, even though they were handcuffed together. Every single time John walked through fire for him, going back to the gunshot that saved Sherlock's life on the first case they had._ Of course. 

"Hey. Don't go mind-palace on me now, I just confessed my bloody love, what more could I possibly do to hold your attention?" Sherlock's yanked out of his reverie by this quip, which he resists the urge to roll his eyes at. John, unfortunately, still thinks he's a master comedian. It's too bad Sherlock's grown to find this endearing instead of annoying. 

"Did you want a flowery declaration of love too? Because I could do one, probably, if you gave me a week to write it. And it might not be as good. But I'd try." John glances over at Sherlock. A grin spreads over his face, tinged with mischief this time. "Honestly, Sherlock, I'd deduced this a while ago." 

"Oh, really, did you?" Sherlock's mouth quirks up at the sides. "Enlighten me, Doctor Watson." 

John takes a step closer. They're practically touching now, and if it were possible for hearts to be seen beating through chests, Sherlock's would be visible. "It was... the way your shirt was tucked." 

"Oh really?" Sherlock raises his eyebrow, still smiling despite his best efforts. "Tell me more." 

"Yes, you see..." John's doing his posh voice, in what must be an attempt to imitate Sherlock. "The way you've, erm, pushed it in - No, sorry, no, I can't." He's overcome with laughter for a moment. "It was Mary's video, Sherlock, I watched it. 'The man we both love.'" 

"Oh, that's a really good deduction, John, well done. Would you like my job?" He bows theatrically, only adding to John's amusement. 

"Oi, I don't appreciate the sarcasm. And it wasn't just that, but that sort of... made me aware. That all those little things that might add up really, truly did." 

"Were you going to say anything?" Sherlock asks. "About the video." 

John gives a shrug. "I... dunno, eventually, I guess. If the moment, you know, presented itself..." He trails off. "I didn't want you to think that I was invading your privacy." 

"John, please, it was a video of your dead wife -" 

"Who is still dead very recently, so could we maybe find a bit of a nicer way to say that?" 

A reply that might be more typical for Sherlock - _"Being nice won't bring her back"_ \- drops off his tongue, and he swallows it. "I'm sorry. It was a video of Mary. You had every right to watch it, John." 

"Well, I'm glad I did, because if I hadn't Culverton Smith might have suffocated you by now." John smiles, but there's little humor there. "And - I mean, of course, because of this." 

There are so many more questions Sherlock wants to ask, but the space between them is growing thick with emotion. He coughs and moves away. "Are you still leaving?" 

John pauses and gives him a look of disbelief. "Oh yeah, definitely. 'I love you, Sherlock, now goodbye, here's Molly!' Of course I'm not leaving!" 

"I just wanted to make sure." 

"Well, apparently, I can never leave you alone again." With a tilt of his head, John steps forward, and his hands find the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock is fairly sure that every cell in his body has stopped moving. "And I don't plan to." 

And then they're kissing. It sears Sherlock's mouth like a brand, this knowledge that he will never be the same again. Fire, licking into his throat and down through his chest, curling up there like a purring demon. Every second is bliss and agony and transcendence. 

They break apart what must only be a few moments later, both breathing hard and still clutching each other like they'll disappear again. Slowly, they disentangle, and John laughs. Sherlock can feel it rumble deep in his chest. 

"That was..." Sherlock coughs again, searching for words in his curiously blank mind. "Er, good, yeah." 

"Happy birthday, love," John grins, and Sherlock's insides do a convincing loop-the-loop. "Better than a text from the Woman, yeah?" 

"Oh, for God's sake. John, I am _gay,_ I just -" 

"All right, all right, relax." He rubs Sherlock's arm. The casual touch is a reminder that this is real, and it's almost as good as the kissing. (Almost.) "I was just joking. And by the way, it's sweet, that. You saving her." 

"It's not _sweet,_ " Sherlock grumbles. His mind is slowly returning. 

"Whatever you say," John sing-songs under his breath. He punctuates his next statement with a clap of his hands. "So! Cake." 

"Cake? Why on Earth - oh. My _birthday._ " 

"Yes. Don't make that face. You got snogged, now you're getting cake." 

"Must I be sung to as well?" 

"And you're gonna love it. Come on." With a groan, Sherlock discards his dressing gown on the chair and walks to the door. John's waiting with his arm outstretched. 

"What about Rosie?" 

"We're going to pick her up after. Declarations of love, cake, kissing, and taking care of a baby. Ticks all the boxes." 

"Oh, happy birthday to me, this is perfect," Sherlock muses to no one in particular. 

"Well, thanks," John says happily as he holds the door. 

"Love a good paradox." Sherlock puts on his coat with a flourish and practically skips down the stairs. 

"Sorry, what?" With significantly less panache, John follows into the bitter air. 

"John Watson, unstoppable force. Sherlock Holmes, immovable object. What happens when they collide?" 

John eyes him suspiciously. "I've no idea. Are you sure you're not high? If you are, I swear to God -" 

"Oh please." He rolls his eyes. "Of course not. And I don't have any idea either, there's no solution. But I get the feeling we may be the ones to find it." 

Now it's John's turn to look skyward and give a sigh. "Do you ever shut up? Seriously, Sherlock. I even tried kissing you, and that, the last resort, didn't work." 

"I was being romantic!" he shouts back as he strides along the street. 

"Comparing your affection to a logic puzzle is not _romance,_ Sherlock." John catches up in a few steps. 

"But you love it." 

"Ah, that's where you're wrong. I don't love it." They stop where they're standing, a couple yards down the road from their door. A January wind whips along the streets of London and cuts straight through Sherlock where his coat hangs open, and John braces against it as he peers into Sherlock's face. "But I do love you." 

Because he can't let himself enjoy this thing he's wanted for so long, because that would be too easy and dishonest, Sherlock blurts, "What about Mary?" and watches as John's face falls. 

"Well." He sighs. "I - when I had that, moment, you know, back in the flat - oh God, how do I say this without sounding like I'm completely insane -" 

"You talk to Mary." Sherlock levels his gaze at the other man. "I talk to you when you're not there. It's not that different. You're not insane, John." 

"Right, cheers, well - it's not like I'm _over_ her death, Sherlock. And I won't be for a long time, you need to understand. But she told me to get on with it." John shrugs. "So this is me, getting on with it. Finally." 

They turn and continue walking, turning off Baker towards the heart of London. The feeling that rises inside Sherlock is so powerful that he finally understands why people act the way they do. He'd drain the seas for John, his quiet strength and his resolve. It's waves crashing on the cliffs of Dover, it's the silence before the orchestra plays. It's something right and good and almost holy. 

Equilibrium.

**Author's Note:**

> sherlock's confession was in part inspired by [this post!](http://221bgay.tumblr.com/post/155601231615/is-anyone-talking-about-how-sherlocks-response-to)
> 
> thank you so much for reading ❤ come yell at me on tumblr [@shouttogether](http://weareparamore.co.vu) about the latest episodes or about this! have a lovely morning or night or whatever part of the day it is!


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